


If the Cock Fits

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Induced Amnesia, Amnesia, Background Relationships, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Community: daily_deviant, M/M, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, One Night Stands, Pining, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3586746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like Cinderella, only Draco’s arse is the shoe left behind, and he’s searching for the perfect prick that fits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Cock Fits

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the February "romance trope" prompt at Daily Deviant. The tropes I chose were amnesia, one night stand turns into something more, and the right person was there all along. I originally had a really cracky idea about amnesia and “every time they orgasm they forget” but that wanted to be 20k long so… we get Draco searching for the perfect prick instead. But it’s still amnesia, because I adore missing memory tropes! As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play with them.

“Ronald and I are having a dinner party on Friday evening.” Pansy settles in next to Draco, feet crossed delicately at the ankles as she perches on the edge of the chair. She manages to look as if she’s waiting for tea in a high society drawing room, rather than seated at one of the cafeteria tables in the Ministry, a feat that still impresses Draco even after more than five years of employment. “Shall we assume that you will be bringing Devon?”

“Who?” He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, a faint frown drawing in his eyebrows. “Pansy, I’ll be alone, as usual. You know that.”

“ _Devon_ ,” she repeats. “Twenty-one, Hufflepuff, two years behind us at Hogwarts. Tall, broad shouldered, covered in chest hair that you couldn’t _wait_ to dig your fingers into. Works in Accounting, counting knuts for International Sports Affairs.” At Draco’s continued silence, she says sharply, “You planned to have him shag you into the mattress last Thursday. Does that help your memory?”

Ah. Him. “His cock was too thin.” Draco chews the bite of his salad, then spears a piece of tomato. “Terrible disappointment, really. It also curved to the left when it ought to’ve curved to the right. Quite unexpected, considering he dresses to the other side. Honestly, you’d think he’d be uncomfortable, given how tight his trousers tend to be. Nice arse, though, I’ll give him that.”

“His prick was too thin.” Pansy’s tone is dry, each word dripping with irritation. “Draco, dearest, do listen to yourself. It has been _five years_. Do you think that the search for the perfect prick might end, and you could possibly give yourself a chance at happiness? Or perhaps Ron is right, and this is merely an excuse to flit from one encounter to another and dip your wick wherever you please. Have you _ever_ fucked a man twice?”

“I have never been fucked by a man twice,” Draco corrects her, choosing to eat rather than pay attention to the irritated little twist of her lip. “Please, Pansy, use the proper terminology. I am an irredeemable pansy-arsed bottom, at least I’m certain that’s how my father sees me. My mother reminds me that I have a duty to the family, and I remind her that I have no interest whatsoever in fanny.”

“You could adopt.” Harry grins as he takes the third seat at the table. “Hey, Pansy. Ron told me about Friday, and I’ll be there. On time, as long as work doesn’t drag me under.”

“Will you be bringing a guest?”

Harry makes a face. “Have you ever known me to bring a guest? I have no desire to have someone sit there fawning over me. Maybe in ten years, when the novelty of shagging the saviour has worn off. Maybe I’ll try dating then. Until then, my friends will just have to put up with me being single.” He picks up a chocolate biscuit from his plate and offers it to Draco, who accepts it in trade for the treacle tart he’d nabbed before they ran out earlier. “And you _could_ adopt, Draco. Or use magical implantation. Hermione’s been working on further research at St. Mungo’s. By the time you’re ready to think about children, she might have a list of potential carriers for those who are looking for heirs but aren’t willing to have them on their own.”

“Intriguing, but not something I need to think about just yet. We live for a long while, and children are a thought for the future.” A thought for _after_ Draco finds the perfect cock. A child would merely hold him back, make it impossible to continue trying to find the needle in a haystack that results in the perfect fuck. “But I’ll be certain to speak with her when I’m ready.”

“I might consider it myself,” Harry muses around bites of his treacle tart, lunch lying uneaten in favor of beginning with his afters. “Raising a child alone might actually be easier than trying to find someone to do it with me.”

“It isn’t as terrible as you think.” Pansy touches his hand lightly.

Harry smiles thinly. “No, actually, it’s worse.”

While Draco doesn’t entirely understand, he does sympathize. He and Harry bonded years ago over the subject of public image—Harry’s all too positive one, and Draco’s exceedingly negative one. They were two sides of the same coin, and in some manner, Draco wondered if Harry hoped to tarnish his own by spending time with Draco. Irony prevailed, of course, the company only proving that perhaps Draco was redeemed after all, while somehow making Harry look all the better.

And while worship might be entertaining for a time, Draco does believe it would get dull quickly. He reaches under the table and idly pats Harry’s knee in reassurance. “Someday I’m certain you’ll find someone who refuses to believe that you walk on water. I’m sure she’s out there.”

Harry flushes faintly. “I’m sure they are. It’s just a question of not only finding the right person for me, but also hoping that I’m right for _them_.”

Draco huffs, and Pansy glares at him. “Not that Draco would understand,” she says dryly. “Did you know he’s fucked another one and left? What is that, Draco, third time this month?”

“Second.” He makes quick work of the sweet chocolate, wiping the crumbs neatly from his fingertips. “It’s not as if I have a goal of sleeping my way through every potentially interested man in the wizarding world, Pansy. It’s simply that I’m looking for—”

“The perfect cock.” She sighs, leans in to kiss his cheek. “Friday, Draco. And if Ron happens to invite any like-minded men, please do try to avoid shagging them in my home. The Fredericks situation was a nightmare to resolve. I couldn’t convince Ron to use that bathroom for _months_ after he walked in on you.”

“I shan’t shag in your home,” Draco promises, smirking slightly when she walks away. “After all, she has a perfectly good shed out back,” he murmurs to Harry.

“Still looking for the perfect cock, then?” Harry asks quietly, picking at his sandwich now that his treacle tart is done.

“I’ll find it someday. It’s rather like Cinderella, don’t you think? Only my arse happens to be the shoe left behind, and I’ve yet to find the prick that fits.” Draco pushes back from the table, smoothes his robes down neatly and brushes any remaining crumbs away. “Do you know what Pansy once said to me? _If the cock fits, fuck it. It doesn’t have to be perfect_.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t understand.”

Harry sets his sandwich down, glances up from under a fringe that is too long, falling down across his face and almost hiding those bright green eyes. “Neither do I, Draco, but if that’s what you’re looking for, then that’s what you need to find, yeah?”

Draco smiles fondly. If anyone had told him five years before that Harry Potter would become one of his dearest friends, he would have laughed, but somehow now he can’t imagine his life without him in it. He blames Weasley’s marriage to Pansy, but truth be told, his friendship with Harry predates that. It seemed so easy to fall into it, and he depends on him now. Even if they don’t always see eye to eye.

Because Harry always has his best interests at heart, and Draco appreciates that in friend.

“Exactly,” Draco murmurs. “That’s exactly what I need to find.”

#

The thing is, Draco has already found the perfect cock.

On New Year’s Eve, after the war ended, he went out to a Muggle bar and managed to get himself completely and utterly pissed, somewhere beyond the point of remembering the bulk of the evening. He felt the strictures that had wrapped around him throughout his life unwind with every pint, and by the time he had reached the eighth or ninth drink, he was cheerily flirting with every bloke nearby.

So they were Muggles, _so what_. Draco didn’t care that night. All he cared about was that none of them knew he’d been _evil_ once. He wanted to have _fun_ and maybe to _fuck_ and that’s how he ended up on his knees in the men’s loo just before midnight, a bloke’s prick deep in his throat. 

It was his first blow job, and he didn’t think he was doing half bad if the groans were anything to go by. The prick was beautiful, too, long and uncut, letting him wank it with the foreskin before the head peeked out. He stroked it with both hand and tongue, fingers twisting slightly along the curve, letting this encounter seep into his brain where it would lodge for years. His _first time_.

Draco managed to get the whole cock in his mouth, feeling the way it choked him until his eyes watered, but it was worth it for the fingers that scrabbled at his hair, the incoherent moans and the thrust of the bloke’s hips. He cradled his balls—the perfect handful—and rolled them lightly.

“Oh _fuck_ , I want your ass.”

Draco stilled, letting the prick slip out of his mouth. This wasn’t in his plan for the night, and he was utterly unprepared for it. He didn’t know how Muggles had sex, and he’d certainly never had the chance to do it himself, but he was well aware that it wasn’t necessarily a simple procedure for a bloke. He leaned back on his heels, looked up at the bloke who stood in shadows over him.

His cock ached, and his arse felt every little word, every light touch against his cheek. “Fine,” he whispered, and next thing he knew he was leant over the sink, arse in the air, two fingers pressing into him after whispered words that he recognized.

The fucking bloke was a _wizard_.

And damned good with a lubrication spell, the slickness warm and wet and slippery as the bloke fucked it into his arse, opening him up roughly and quickly, while Draco whined and pushed back against it. He’d never felt anything quite like this—his own fingers could never reach that angle, and oh _bloody hell_ it was fucking brilliant.

And the cock, that fucking beautiful prick. Merlin, but it was amazing as it slowly pressed into him, sliding inch by inch into Draco’s arse until the bloke was balls deep.

“Look at that,” the bloke murmured, voice rough with hunger. “Just look at that, your fucking pale arse with me deep inside of you.” He drew back, and fucked in again slowly. “I’ve never seen an arse as beautiful as yours. Never fucked anyone before and you… you are so bloody fucking gorgeous. Can’t stop.” His hips stuttered, and the fucking truly began then, hard and rough, pushing Draco up against the sink until he couldn’t think anymore. 

The cock was _perfect_ , hitting all the right places inside of Draco on every thrust, leaving him with stars behind his eyes and a desperate need to touch his own cock. It only took three strokes and he was coming, painting the sink in thick white stripes as he clenched down hard around the cock inside of him. He heard the groan, felt himself filled with sticky fluids as the bloke stilled, leaning over him, hands light against his side.

His ears were still ringing, head spinning when the bloke dragged him up, kissed him thoroughly as the bells rung midnight.

By the time Draco was coherent enough to pull up his pants and trousers, tucking himself away, the bloke was gone. He never got a name, nor any way to find him, never told him he was a wizard as well.

It was just one fucking random encounter, and Draco had been searching for the right prick ever since, because nothing, and no one, had ever satisfied him like that one.

It’s a bloody futile search and he knows it, but how can he settle when he knows the perfect prick is out there somewhere?

#

Pansy and Ron’s dinner is just as dull and tedious and filled with random dull conversation between couples about couplish things as Draco expects. They host a meal every other month or so, and there are always a large number of couples who have become their extended group over the years. Hermione and Neville, Ginny and Blaise, Theo and Padma, Lavender and Luna, Millicent and Greg. Susan Bones and Terry Boot have just returned from their honeymoon to Greece and regale the table with tales of the ruins, while Draco sits at one end, idly tapping nonsense sounds into the wood out of sheer boredom.

Harry leans into his shoulder. “Fancy a walk outside? I’m done listening to stories of someone else’s vacation.”

“Greece is fascinating,” Draco murmurs in return, refusing to admit that he’s arsed off about the whole situation. It’s all Pansy’s fault, and he’s frankly in shock that she hasn’t tried matching him and Harry up with someone this time around. They’ve usually got someone else single involved, although now that he thinks about it, two months ago he was sat next to Miles Bletchley, while Harry was fawned over by Parvati Patil, and the rumor mill says that Miles and Parvati started dating less than a week after. The same had happened with Boot and Bones, not a year before.

Pansy obviously has no talent at matchmaking and yet, manages quite well at matching up everyone but the ones she intends to do.

“I’m going to escape before they finish, because Hermione just returned from a business trip to Kyoto which turned into an extra week on vacation after while she and Neville hiked the countryside looking for obscure plants,” Harry whispers. “I’ve already heard the entire story, and I suspect she’s searching for a more appreciative audience and can’t wait to bring out the pictures.”

That’s it, Draco’s had enough. He quietly dabs his face with his napkin, then folds it neatly and sets it next to his plate. He manages to push back his chair without scraping, but Harry isn’t so lucky, and Pansy looks over with pursed lips. “Going somewhere?” She arches one eyebrow, head tilted so that her pug nose points up.

“Stretching my legs. Draco’s being nice enough to keep me company,” Harry says quickly, his hands up and facing towards the table. “Keep on talking. You know me, I’ve never been very good at sitting still.”

“His tapping foot was driving me spare,” Draco says dryly, which is of course a complete lie, but gives credence to the fact that he is voluntarily walking away from the food, wine, and a conversation which society says he is supposed to politely pretend to enjoy. “I promise I shan’t drown him in the lake, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Pansy sets a hand on her husband’s arm just as Ron’s expression twists pained. “Hopefully you won’t shag him in the loo, either,” she says sharply.

Draco snorts, an indelicate sound that invites shocked expressions from the others. But how _impossible_ , which Pansy knows well, as she’s the one who’s been bringing in ladies to meet Harry for years now. He is hardly Harry’s type. “I’m very assured that he’ll be able to keep his hands away from me, despite how attractive and irresistible we all know I am.” Draco tilts his head, nods once. “Until later, then.”

They manage to escape, and Draco can hear the conversation shift from Greek ruins to a comparison of temples between Greece and Japan. Harry’s right, and Hermione and Neville are slowly warming to their topic. The dinner table will be occupied for hours at this rate, straight through drinks and afters.

It’s a pity to miss those; Pansy’s cellar is absolutely brilliant, and there’s a fine dessert wine Draco’s been pining after for ages. He wonders if he might convince one of her house elves to deliver it to the lawn rather than the table, along with some treacle tart for Harry, of course.

Or perhaps not.

Harry walks with his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched, staring at the ground ahead of them, strides eating up the distance far faster than an evening stroll should. Draco hurries to keep up with him, trying to divine his mood and whether treacle tart might even begin to help.

As the house recedes behind them, and the shed and the edge of the lake near, Draco can’t hold back his irritation. “I thought you said _walk_ ,” he snarks. “Had I realized we were embarking on an evening’s jog, I might have brought trainers. These shoes are hardly fit for exercise.”

Harry stops abruptly, and Draco manages to stop behind him, one hand up to balance himself. He touches Harry’s back, and Harry turns towards him, leaning into the touch, his brow furrowed.

“Why is it so impossible that I might want to touch you?” Harry snaps. “Why do you constantly need to put people between us? Why do you insist on reminding me that no matter how many bloody blokes you shag on your search for the perfect bloody prick, you have no interest in mine?”

“What?” They are all words, Draco is certain of that, and he’s fairly sure that they are strung into coherent sentences as well. But not one word of what Harry has said makes sense to him in the context of _Harry_ , as Draco knows him.

Harry steps in closer, finger jabbing into Draco’s chest, sliding across the silk of his shirt. “You have never _once_ considered that I might be interested in you.”

“Because you’re straight,” Draco says reasonably, as if Harry needs reminding of his own sexuality. “In case you don’t recall, you’ve dated several women in the past, all reasonably attractive and perhaps a little butch, but still very much in possession of tits and a fanny as far as I know. Now I do admit that it’s possible, as not all women are the same, but last I knew, you had absolutely no interest in men.”

Harry’s smile is pinched and thin, sharp in the light of the moon. “Have you ever asked?”

“Well, no.” Draco can’t think of a time when he _would_ have asked. After all, Harry talks about the worship he receives all the time. He tells tales of women trailing after him, begging for his number, saying how well they’d treat him if he took them out. He recalls one time that Harry attempted to see a Muggle film, only to have a Muggleborn witch accost him in the theater and attempt to offer to suck him off in the back row. “I haven’t needed to. I’ve known you for more than half our lives, Harry. Admittedly we were at odds for a good part of that, but we’ve nearly lived in each other’s robe pockets these last five years. I’ve never seen you with a bloke.”

“I do go out on my own occasionally,” Harry mutters, and well, Draco can’t deny that. He goes out on his own as well, as he’s never wanted to subject his paired off friends to his singles nights out. And he hasn’t bothered inviting Harry as he was fairly certain that the places he frequented would not appeal.

Perhaps he was wrong. It’s rare, but it does happen on occasion. Not that he’ll admit it aloud.

He wrestles his brain back to the subject at hand. “Are you offering your prick for comparison, then?” It’s a disturbing thought, if Draco’s honest with himself. After all, it won’t measure up. It _can’t_ measure up to an anonymous shag in a loo with a bloke that Draco will never manage to find again.

“Why bother?” Harry throws his hands wide, shouts the words at the night sky. “Draco, you’ve only ever done one-offs. You’ve no interest in a relationship and like it or not, we’re already _in_ a relationship. We’re _friends_ , and as much as I’m interested in you, I don’t bloody well want to fuck that up by making it so you’ll never want to see me again.”

Draco blinks, because everything Harry says sounds right, and yet, it seems absolutely impossible.

He’s being offered a chance at something more than a shag in a back room, or a sneaky look at a prick and a quick fuck that doesn’t satisfy. He’s being offered a chance at a relationship built over being best friends, with a bloke he’s never considered as someone he might get into bed.

He’s being offered a chance to fuck up everything he’s built between him and Harry in the last five years, and he knows Pansy will absolutely kill him if he destroys this friendship now.

“You want me to choose between finding the perfect prick and you,” Draco says quietly, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought. “I get the feeling I’m bloody well screwed no matter which way I go.”

Harry huffs a sigh. “You’ve got a point there. Now that it’s all out in the open, I’ve already arsed shit up. I can’t sit around pining for you while knowing that you know I’m doing it. That’s just bloody well awkward.”

“It is.” The words keep coming out, but Draco has no idea what he’s thinking. It’s as if he participates automatically, solely because polite society has given him things to say, even if polite society has no idea what to do with a situation like this.

“Which I also suppose means things can’t get much worse, can they?” Harry shrugs, his gaze fixed on Draco. “After all, if I’m already uncomfortable, and I’m already likely to shy away from you because you know I fancy you, then how much worse could it get?”

Draco blinks, because _that_ didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand.”

Harry closes the distance between them in quick steps, following as Draco backs his way down the lawn until the wall of the shed comes up behind him and there’s no place left to go. Harry doesn’t push, just stands there; Draco could escape to either side but he’s loathe to leave the warmth of Harry’s body so close to him.

“Fancy taking my prick out for a spin?” Harry murmurs. “It won’t measure up to whatever perfection your mind has set on a pedestal, but it ought to be fun. And if this is all I get, a one off’s better than nothing at all.”

He ought to say no. He really, truly, ought to say no.

But if he’s honest with himself—and Draco tries to be, although it’s been a life of perfect appearances and lies since he was born—he’s sick of the hunt for the perfect cock. Maybe it isn’t about the cock. Maybe that cock—that perfect time—maybe that’s just because he was drunk off his arse and pitying himself and it was his bloody first time. Maybe he’s making the memory a bit more rosy than it was, cast in a haze of misremembered moments.

Maybe this chance with Harry is worth more than finding a prick so perfect that Draco gets hard just thinking about it.

Because thinking about getting Harry naked has him hard too.

“Maybe the person’s more important than the prick,” Draco murmurs, hands at rest on the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “Maybe I don’t need the prick after all.”

The hope in Harry’s expression shines brighter than the moon, and a moment later the door to the shed is wrenched open and they both tumble inside, Harry stopping when he sees where they are. “This is a _shed_?”

“This is _Pansy’s_ shed,” Draco corrects. “You didn’t actually think it was a place where she stored gardening tools and Muggle objects, did you? Hardly.” The _shed_ is more of a beach house, larger on the inside than it looks from the outside, with an elaborately decorated sitting area, a large walk-in closet full of assorted swim-wear and cover-ups, and a fully stocked bar and kitchen. “It is also not a part of her main house, and thus, not a part of her edict that I refrain from shagging in the house. Therefore, we should be naked.”

Harry grabs him, pulls him in and kisses him hard. It’s sloppy and not exactly wet but it’s far from dry or chaste. It’s open-mouthed and hungry, and Harry’s lips move along Draco’s jaw, nipping at the skin then coming back to devour his mouth again. Draco falls into it, a little drunk on the taste of him and thinking that he doesn’t need the prick after all. He could survive forever on snogging his best friend.

It’s a strange, heady thought to realize that he’s already thinking of doing it again. That he wants to drag Harry back to his own small flat and ride him in bed until he screams. That he wants to explore distant lands with Harry and fuck under the stars, then bring back photos of the beach to show at couples night as if their trip were nothing more than a sweet vacation.

It’s a little terrifying, and Draco moans into the kiss, begging to get on with it and have Harry fuck these scary feelings out of his mind.

“I want to suck you,” Draco whispers, because once he has a cock in his mouth he’ll forget about _feelings_. He’ll forget about the image of waking up wrapped around Harry, of being pressed back into the mattress and fucked slowly until he’s wide awake and howling his pleasure. He needs to be _doing_ , not _thinking_.

Harry doesn’t object to being nudged onto the couch, his trousers and pants whipped off with magic and neatly folded in a little pile on top of the bureau nearby. Draco falls to his knees, presses Harry’s legs wide with his hands on his thighs, and nuzzles in to nip lightly at that spot where balls meet cock, the skin soft and supple and covered in fuzz.

The scent of Harry’s musk settles him, and he sighs happily, rubbing his cheek against the inside of Harry’s thigh, teasing him until fingers in his hair direct him closer to his crotch. Draco licks a stripe up the underside of his prick—long, a little thick, and curving the right. He wraps his hand around it, strokes the foreskin and exposes the head to be licked, and Harry pushes his hips up, pressing into Draco’s mouth.

It’s the moment when he has him down his throat, fingers tugging at his hair as Harry fucks into his mouth, that Draco realizes.

_It’s the fucking prick_.

He can’t breathe, can’t even try to get a fucking breath. He pulls off, tumbling backwards in his haste, landing on his bum and his hands to stare up at Harry. “You,” he whispers.

Harry blinks several times, eyes wide and dark as he refocuses on Draco. “What?”

And just like that, Draco knows Harry doesn’t remember any better than he does. That Harry has absolutely no idea who he fucked five years ago, or how it affected him. He doesn’t remember the loo in the back of a Muggle bar, or coming just at the moment of midnight.

Harry doesn’t remember, and Draco doesn’t care, because this means he can have the perfect man _and_ the perfect prick, all wrapped up in one neat package that belongs to _him_ alone.

“I’m going to suck you,” Draco whispers, slowly moving back between Harry’s legs, licking at the head of his cock. “Then I am going to ride you until your eyes roll back in your head while you fuck me so hard with your glorious prick.”

Harry smiles, the expression soft and gentle and oh-so-wanting. He tangles his fingers in Draco’s hair, guides him back to his cock, slipping the tip between Draco’s lips. “I am very much in favor of that,” he replies.

Draco strokes along Harry’s cock, feeling the foreskin slide to wank him, but he doesn’t take him all the way in his mouth. Instead he teases him with his tongue, sliding around the head, pressing the tip into the small hole, then sucking him partway into his mouth. He tests and tastes until he hears Harry groan, until he feels the press of fingers against his skull, then he squeezes the base of Harry’s prick and keeps the orgasm at bay. “I want you inside of me.”

“Come here.” Harry holds out his hands, and Draco wastes no time in sending his own clothes to fold themselves neatly beside Harry’s on the bureau. He is completely naked as he straddles Harry’s legs, his knees spread wide and arse open for Harry to slide a finger down his crack. He shivers pleasantly when Harry gently nudges at his dry hole, then wets his finger and strokes around the rim.

“Lube would be nice,” Draco murmurs, dropping his head to Harry’s shoulder, curling his body against him, and Harry chuckles.

He recognizes the hoarse voice now, the words of the soft spell and the warm slick of Harry’s fingers pushing into him. There is more care this time, more understanding of how bodies work and how to tease Draco, tormenting him as he opens him until Draco is quivering and begging to be filled. Harry takes his time until he has three fingers twisting inside of Draco, and he feels loose and ready.

“Please,” Draco whines. He reaches back, finds Harry’s prick and lines it up so he can slowly sink onto it.

It’s _perfect_.

Draco rises up, lowers himself, fucking himself on that perfect prick. He feels the way it touches everything inside of him, the way Harry rolls his hips and fucks into him, leaving Draco gasping with need.

But he also _looks_ at Harry, presses one hand over his heart, teases his nipple between thumb and forefinger. He sees the flush of Harry’s skin, and the way his eyes are the dark of a forest now, hungrily watching Draco. He rides _Harry_ , not some nameless fucking prick, rolling his hips just so to make Harry groan and gasp, stuttering as he tries to thrust. Harry is the one who whispers expletives, says how fucking _beautiful_ Draco is, with his pale skin and his arse that’s made for Harry’s prick.

And Draco feels those words coil hot in his gut, burn tight in his thighs as he lowers himself, taking Harry deeper yet, until sparks explode behind his eyelids and his body tightens and releases with a spurt of sticky fluid all over Harry’s chest.

“Fuck, _Draco_.” Fingers dig into his hips, leaving small prints that Draco knows will bruise, and Harry pushes up into him, filling him with warmth.

Draco collapses onto Harry and they tilt sideways, falling down to stretch out on the sofa, curled together as Harry’s softening cock slips free of Draco’s arse. Draco nuzzles close, nipping at Harry’s throat, sucking a small mark as if to say _I was here_ or _this is mine_. It’s not something he’s ever felt the urge to do before, but now he can’t think of anything else. He’s pleased by the marks he knows Harry has left on his body, pleased to be able to say that they were here and did this, and that they might do it again.

Harry wraps an arm around Draco and they lie together, sticky with sweat and the aftermath of their orgasms. Draco feels magic wash over him gently, and the worst of the mess is gone, although he still feels slick with heat. He sighs; he can bear it if it means he doesn’t have to move.

Fingers stroke gently through his hair, comforting and warm.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs.

“For what?”

Harry laughs slightly, the sound strained. “For this. For giving me once. It was fucking brilliant, Draco, and I honestly… some day you’re going to find what you’re looking for, and that is one lucky bloke. Because you’re a right prat, I know, but you’re a good person. And you’re a fucking brilliant lover, and I can’t even imagine ever finding an arse as perfect as yours.”

“No one is ever going to be as perfect as me,” Draco says, because _of course_ he’s the best. He always has been.

But he also sees where Harry is going with this conversation, and he needs to correct his course before Draco finds himself alone in this shed. Lovely as it is, it is far better shared than solo.

“I’ve already found it,” he says quietly, punctuating the words with a kiss to Harry’s throat. “Idiot that I am—and please do remember this moment, as I’m unlikely to repeat it in the future—I apparently was so busy looking for something that I missed what was right in front of me the entire time.”

“Care to repeat that?”

Draco pinches the bit of skin he finds beneath his fingertip, loving the way Harry arches against him when he does. There’s a delicious slide of prick on prick, and he wonders how quickly they’ll be ready for another go. He wants to manage as many times as possible before returning to the dull talk of the evening and a night of pretending to propriety within the walls of Pansy’s home. “I intend to keep you, Harry,” he says dryly. “Do keep up. And I might suggest summoning a drink; it wouldn’t do for us to get dehydrated since I fully intend to have you shag me senseless at least once more here, then we shall spend the night in my bed, and I suspect that your mouth might be put to good use in the morning. Unless you’ve some objection to continuing to this past this moment?”

“Are you suggesting a relationship?” Harry pulls back enough to meet Draco’s gaze, his own eyes clear and green, no longer darkened by lust.

“As you’ve so logically pointed out, we are already in a relationship,” Draco reminds him. He reaches for him, cradling the nape of his neck, pulling him in to kiss him and remind him exactly what that relationship now means. “It is merely changing, for the better one would hope.”

“And your perfect prick?” Because _of course_ Harry can’t just let that go.

Draco sighs, and this time he pulls back, framing Harry’s face with his hands, meeting his gaze so he can speak solemnly. “I’ve no need to keep searching for the perfect prick,” he says slowly. “Because I already have you.”

The way Harry reacts, covering him with his body, pressing down hip to hip until Draco’s cock awakens to take interest in the proceedings, is extremely gratifying. There really isn’t a need to say more.

Perhaps some day Draco will have to tell the story of the way a new year began mid-fuck, with an orgasm at midnight, and paved the way for five years of searching for something he had lost, only to discover that it had been waiting patiently for him the entire time. Perhaps some day they might compare foggy memories of a lost night, and piece together the things they lost between then and now.

Perhaps some day, but not now. Draco has new memories to build, and a perfect prick to worship, and an even more perfect man to love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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